«I’ve got an idea,» he said as casually as he could. «I saw a poster by the door that—in my schoolboy French—I think said Fête d’Hiver. Someplace called Montereau-something-or-other. Isn’t that a kind of carnival?»
«The fête is, not the village. It’s about seven or eight miles south of here, I think.»
«What is it? The carnival, I mean.»
«Fêtes d’hiver? They’re quite common and usually run by the local churches. As a rule, they’re associated with a saint’s day. It’s like a flea market.»
«Let’s go.»
«Really?»
«Why not? It might be fun. I’ll buy you a present.»
Helden looked at him quizzically. «All right,» she said.
The bright afternoon sunlight bounced off the side-view mirror in harsh reflections, causing Holcroft to squint and blink repeatedly, trying to rid his eyes of blind spots. The dark-green Fiat appeared now and then. It was far behind them, but never out of sight for very long.
He parked the car behind a church, which was the focal point of the small town. Together he and Helden walked around the rectory to the front and into the crowds.
The village square was typically French, the cobblestone streets spreading out like irregular spokes from an imperfect wheel, old buildings and winding sidewalks everywhere. Stalls were set up in no discernible order, their awnings in various stages of disrepair, crafts and foodstuffs of all descriptions piled on counters. Shiny platters and a profusion of oilcloth caught the rays of sun; shafts of light shot through the crowd. This fête was not aimed at the tourist trade. Foreigners belonged to the spring and summer months.
The man with the pockmarked face was standing in front of a stall halfway across the square. He was munching on a piece of pastry, his eyes darting in Holcroft’s direction. The man did not know he had been spotted; Noel was certain of that. He was far too casual, too intent on eating. He had his targets under surveillance; all was well. Holcroft turned to Helden, at his side.
«I see the present I want to get you!» he shouted.
«Don’t be silly…»
«Wait here! I’ll be back in a few minutes.»
«I’ll be over there»—she pointed to her right—«at the pewter display.»
«Fine. See you soon.»
Noel began edging his way through the crowd. If he could weave enough, slouch enough, and make sufficiently quick movements, he could reach the edge of the mass of colliding bodies without the light-haired man’s seeing him. Once on the cobblestone sidewalk beyond the crowd, he could inch his way around to within yards of the pastry stall.
He reached the sidewalk; the man had not seen him get there. He had ordered another piece of pastry and was eating it absently, rising on the balls of his feet, peering anxiously over the heads of the crowd. Abruptly, he seemed to relax and settle back, his attention only half on his targets. He had spotted Helden; apparently he was convinced that if he could see her, her companion would not be far away.
Noel feigned a suddenly lame ankle and limped around the border of the crowd, his new injury allowing him to bend over in pain. There was no way the man could see him now.
Noel was directly behind the pastry stall, no more than ten yards from it. He watched the man closely. There was something primitive about him as he stood there motionless, eating deliberately, every now and then stretching to make sure his quarry was still in sight. It struck Holcroft that he was watching a predator. He could not see its eyes, but somehow he knew they were cold and alert. The thought made him angry, raising images in his mind of such a man seated behind a driver, a gun perhaps at the driver’s head, waiting for Richard Holcroft to emerge on a New York sidewalk. It was the sense of ice-cold, deadly manipulation that enraged him.
Noel lunged into the crowd, his right hand gripping the automatic in his pocket, his left extended in front of him, fingers taut. When Noel touched him, it would be a grip the light-haired man would never forget.
Suddenly he was blocked.
Blocked!
As he parted the shoulders of a man and a woman in front of him, a third figure met him head on, cross-checking him with its body, its face turned away. He was being stopped deliberately!
«Get out of my way! Goddammit, let go of me!»
He could see that his shouts, or his English, or both, had alarmed the light-haired man, just feet away, who spun in place, dropping his pastry. His eyes were wild; his face was flushed. He spun again and forced his way through the crowd, away from Noel.
«Get out of—!» Holcroft could feel it before he saw it. Something had sliced through his jacket, ripping the lining above his left pocket. He looked down, his eyes unbelieving. A knife had been thrust at his side; had he not twisted his body, it would have penetrated!
He grabbed the wrist holding the knife, pushing it away, afraid to let go, crashing his shoulder up into the chest of the man who held it. Still the man kept his face hidden. Who was he? There was no time to think or wonder; he had to get the terrible knife away!
Noel screamed. He bent over, his enemy’s wrist vised in both his hands, the blade thrusting about in the crowded space, his whole body writhing, twisting into those surrounding him. He yanked the fist with the blade extending from it, then smashed it down with his full weight, falling to the street as he did so. The blade fell away, clattering on the stone.
Something crashed into his neck. Suddenly dazed, he still knew what it was; he had been hit with an iron pipe. He lay curled up in terror and confusion, but he could not stay down! Instinct made him lurch up; fear made him hold his place, waiting for an attack, prepared to fend it off. And rage made him seek out his attackers.
They were gone. The body that belonged to the unseen face was gone. The knife on the ground was gone! And all around him people backed away, staring at him as if he were deranged.
My God! he thought, with a terrible awareness. If they would kill him, they would kill Helden! If the man with the pockmarked face was protected by killers, and those killers knew he had spotted their charge, they would assume that Helden had spotted him, too. They would go after her! They would kill her, because she was part of his trap!
He broke his way through the circle of onlookers, and dodged a hundred angry arms and hands in the direction he instinctively remembered she’d indicated only minutes before. A stall that was selling some kind of pitchers, or plates, or … pitchers, plates, pewter. That was it! A stall with pewter. Where was it?
It was there, but she was not. She was nowhere to be seen. He ran up to the counter of the stall and shouted.
«A woman! A blond woman was here!»
«Pardon? Je ne parle pas—»
«Une femme… Aux cheveux blonds. Elle a été ici!»
The vendor shrugged and continued polishing a small bowl.
«Oùest elle?» shouted Holcroft.
«Vous êtes fou! Fou!» yelled the stallkeeper.
«Voleur! Police!»
«Non! S’il vous plaît! Une femme aux—»
«Ah,» broke in the vendor. «Une blonde. Dans ce sens.»
He gestured to his left.
Holcroft pushed himself away from the stall and raced into crowds again. He pulled at overcoats and jackets, making a path for himself. Oh, Christ, he had killed her! His eyes searched everywhere, every corridor, every pair of eyes, every thatch of hair. She was nowhere.